Julian had first become suspicious when he’d answered her mobile while she was in the bath. The caller had apologised and quickly hung-up. Julian had idly flicked through her messages and up popped some appointments and meeting times. So, after a quick browse on the Internet, he had telephoned Investigations with Discretion. The answering machine informed: Our service can investigate your partner with complete discretion to either confirm your suspicions or hopefully to put your mind at ease. Julian had left a message and within two days had been knocking at the glass panel door with sign writing that read: Private Investigator, Frank Harper.
The office, situated on the first floor above an Asian mini-mart just off Wimbledon High Street, smelt of curry and stale cigarettes. This was his third visit and the bill was mounting.
‘They’re very cautious, the blinds are always drawn.’ He handed Julian the latest clutch of photos. ‘On Mondays and Thursdays she visits his house. He’s also living with another woman there; she’s a brunette, but always out when your wife calls. He also sees a redhead from time to time. She lives in Staines.’
‘Doesn’t hang about, does he?’ Julian studied the photos. ‘Are you telling me this bloke she’s seeing, this Luke Norris, has been inside for two years, works as a gas fitter, drives a shitty white transit van and has got two other bits on the side as well?’
The investigator nodded.
‘He’s on one of those rehabilitation schemes. They got him a job at Parsons, a Corgi gas sub-contractor in Merton. He learnt the trade in prison apparently, then went around for a while servicing boilers as a gas fitter’s mate.’
Julian looked up from the photos.
‘So what did he go to prison for?’
Harper sifted through some papers on his desk until he found a copy of the report.
‘Fraud, but this is very confidential information, Mr Bentley. I have a snout who is a warden in Wandsworth. He has a cousin who works for the release board in admin. They live well on whisky and cigarettes. That’s how I get my info on ex-cons. Whatever you read you must keep to yourself, is that understood?’
After an agreed nod, he handed Julian the printout.
Julian studied it in silence, but he was thinking. She was really scraping the barrel; being fucked by an ex-con, a Gasman for Christ’s sake. Looks like she was getting bored, fancied going down market for a change, something more rough and ready. A bit of scrag-end with real honest dirt under the finger nails. He could imagine her lying in bed with him, nuzzling her pretty nose under a hairy armpit that, instead of Ralph Lauren, smelt of body odour. However, it started him thinking about what the accountant had said a few days ago.
Of course, he’d never thought of getting rid of her, but now though, things were different. He had a reason. Her infidelity could tie in with his plans. Perhaps fake an accident. Even pay a professional hit man. With his contacts abroad, he certainly knew some people who would know some dodgy people, for a price. The trouble was, that these things tend to backfire, arouse suspicion. Whoever he hired might be under investigation their self, as well as being watched. His number could be on their mobile if they were pulled in. Also, there was the large cash withdrawal required to pay them off, traceable in bank accounts, going out from his end as well as going in theirs. It was just too risky to think of such a thing. He certainly had the motive. The police would spot that the moment his debts surfaced.
Then, from out of nowhere, three weeks later an opportunity suddenly presented itself.
Veronica had left a message in red felt-tip that Tuesday morning on the shared magnet pad stuck to the freezer door. She’d gone to the country club for an early tee off at 8:15 a.m. with a ladies’ golf four. The red scribble highlighted their annual gas boiler service was due this morning from 9:0 a.m. to 11:0 a.m. She’d apologised, said she’d forgotten all about it. Would have stayed in but, too late to cancel with the girls, she was sorry to lumber him. Julian looked at his watch while he munched on some burnt toast with marmalade. He’d made breakfast as Alyssa had returned to the Philippines for three weeks to visit her elderly family. The agreement with the agency allowed her so much time off during the year. It was 10:15 a.m. He was going to the office to sort out some paperwork, but it could wait.
Just then, the buzzer sounded on the intercom box. Julian pressed the speak button and a voice told him it was the gas boiler service. He pressed the other button for the huge ornate gates to swing open and the white transit van drove through.
Once inside, Julian showed him to the laundry room where the floor-standing Potterton was housed. The tall, stocky gasman thanked him and set about dismantling bits of the boiler for cleaning. Julian told him to shout through when he was finished and that he’d be in the study, just down the hall.
Twenty-minutes later, with dirty hands and a black smudge on his left cheek, fair-haired gasman who looked to be in his late twenties, poked his head around the study door and asked Julian,
‘Do you want the good news first or the bad news?’
Julian looked up from his desk and sighed. He took out three Xanax from the drawer of his desk and swallowed them down with a slurp from the bottle of mineral water.
‘Go on then, let’s have the bad news.’
‘The boiler’s on its last legs and I’m afraid I’ll have to condemn it. The good news though, I’ve probably saved you a great deal of discomfort health wise, maybe even your lives.’
‘What does that mean exactly?’ Julian asked him with a tired expression. ‘Is it going to cost me more money?’
‘Afraid so, Mr Bentley. I can’t approve it as serviceable any more. I’m sorry. The regulations state, sir, I have to shut it down and render it unusable if carbon monoxide readings are above a certain level. The heat exchanger leaks and the gas pressure is low due to corrosion. The flue-liner also needs replacing. In short, you need a new boiler.’ He beckoned Julian to see for himself.
Julian, clutching a folder, followed him back to the laundry room along a narrow hallway of oak parquet flooring and walls cluttered with tapestries.
With the front casing removed, he fired up the boiler and showed him the colour of the gas flame. ‘It should normally burn blue, but due to corrosion, the flame is blue to orange, which is a tell-tale sign of leaking carbon monoxide.’
‘So how much for a new boiler?’ Julian asked.
‘We can do you one for around four thousand pounds. I’ve got some brochures in the van,’ he highlighted with some excitement in his eyes. ‘And being November it’s not advisable to keep a house this size cold. Freezing pipes and all that.’
No doubt, there would be a nice bit of commission coming his way, thought Julian.
‘And we also do terms up to four years with twenty-per-cent down,’ the gasman hesitated expectantly.
‘Look, perhaps we can do some sort of deal, just between you and me?’ Julian gave him a relaxed smile to try to draw him into his confidentiality. ‘What would be the worst case scenario if I give you five hundred pounds to look the other way and let it run for another year? We’re planning to move within six months’
The gasman laughed nervously, a bit embarrassed. Not too sure if the customer was joking or for real.
‘If I did that,’ he replied smirking, ‘to put it bluntly, you could die from carbon monoxide poisoning. The only reason you’re not experiencing side effects now like drowsiness, headaches, dizziness, chest pains or even nausea is because the boiler is kept in this laundry room; probably with the door closed. Am I right?’
Julian nodded.
‘You’ve also got a window vent in your kitchen next door that helps.’ The gasman looked serious. ‘If you kept this door open and shut off your kitchen ventilation, you could die in your sleep.’
There was silence between them for a few seconds. Julian seemed to mull over what he’d been told. Then he looked up with excitement in his eyes. He remembered the usual ready cash for himself and Veronica he’d taken from
the safe for the weekend. ‘I’ll give you fifteen hundred pounds cash now,’ Julian said, ‘to pass the boiler for another year.’
The gasman looked stunned, lost for words. He realised he wasn’t joking. ‘
I’m…I’m sorry but my conscience wouldn’t―’ He stopped himself when Julian removed the money from the folder he was holding and handed him the cash envelope.
The gasman slowly opened the package in silence. He nonchalantly thumbed through the notes and thought for a second, then looked up.
‘OK,’ he said cheerfully, ‘I’ll clean it up as best as I can, but I’ll put on my notes - a vent required in laundry room window and suggest customer to fit carbon monoxide alarms.’ The gasman put the money in his pocket. Then he said, ‘this is strictly between you and me, O?. If they found out back at the office, I’d get the heave-ho and you’d be in trouble for offering a bribe.’ As if to exonerate himself and justify the shady transaction, he quickly added, ‘as I said again, my conscience wouldn’t ordinarily let me pass it, but provided you carry out the work required then—’
‘Really,’ Julian butted in and then raised his voice, ‘it’s a pity your conscious doesn’t stop you fucking my wife.’
The gasman froze. He opened and shut his mouth in astonishment like a startled goldfish. He eventually blurted out, ‘What do you mean?’
‘You know what I mean. I recognised you when you walked in.’ He opened the folder he was carrying. ‘Luke Norris, the gasman. My private investigator did some snooping around. You obviously never realised when you got the call out or when you passed my wife’s photo on the kitchen dresser. What a coincidence.’ Julian showed him the snaps of them coming out of his house in Wandsworth.
Luke Norris stared at the photos then said,
‘My God, but I can explain, you see…I’m a chef on the side. I’m giving your wife cookery lessons —’
Julian rolled up laughing,
‘You, a gasman, an ex-con, teaching my wife to cook? That’s a good one. Excuse the pun but you probably cooked up that line between you, in case you got seen or caught.’ Then looking at the investigator’s report he turned serious. ‘It says here you made some small headlines when you went down two years ago for fraud. Run up some gambling debts and stole money from your employer after you lost a packet on a hedge fund investment.’ Julian showed him the newspaper clippings from the court case. ‘My investigator informs me you’re also living with a woman called Jean as well as seeing a red head called Stacy. You are a busy boy, Luke. Does my wife know about these others? No, of course she doesn’t. But, don’t worry; I’m not going to tell her. Your secret is safe, and for good reason.’
‘Look, mate, you’ve got it all wrong—’
Julian waved him to be quiet and then nodded to the small CCTV security monitor high up on the wall. He took out the remote and replayed the last few minutes showing the bribe-taking place with soundtrack.
Luke Norris just stared, he was speechless, then said slowly,
‘Is all this because you think I’m having an affair with…?’
Julian interrupted,
‘You’d get dismissed for that, maybe even go back to prison for breaching health and safety regulations. OK, so you could do a runner. But then, is that what you really want, Luke? Living out of a suitcase, looking over your shoulder; sponging off women, hoping their husbands don’t find out, with a possible hiding in the bargain? Or, would you like to live comfortably for the rest of your life?’
‘What do you mean?’ Luke Norris looked baffled at Julian. ‘Live comfortable on fifteen hundred quid?’
‘No - no,’ Julian laughed. ‘That boiler has just given me an idea. Let’s just call that a deposit for your services. Now, I strongly suggest you don’t waste any more time. Phone your office right now and tell them you couldn’t do this job as you couldn’t gain entry. There was nobody at home. You want no trace of your visit. Put back the boiler as you found it and don’t make out any paperwork.’
‘So what’s all this for then?’ Luke Norris looked at the money and then Julian.
Julian put an arm around his shoulder.
‘Listen, Luke, you wash your hands and make your phone call, then let’s go to my study for a nice cup of coffee and a chat. I want to make you an offer you can’t refuse.’
Shortly after, they were sitting in an enormous wall panelled room around an artificial fire with logs set into a huge fireplace with brass pokers, buckets and warming pans. On one side, dark forbidding portraits of severe men wearing 18th-century wigs looked down, while the other side displayed expensive looking books stacked high to the ceiling.
Julian perched himself in a leather studded Captain’s Chair and topped up their mugs with Blue Mountain coffee from the percolator. Luke Norris looked lost amongst the thick padding of a tanned Chesterfield sofa. As he nibbled at a fancy decorated cookie from a Fortnum and Mason biscuit tin, he knew he was in a corner.
Julian looked in his leather bound diary and pondered.
‘Now listen carefully, Luke, I have an idea that can make us both extremely wealthy. In two weeks’ time, the Seventeenth is our wedding anniversary. I’ll suggest to my wife that instead of going somewhere expensive and impersonal, we could stay in and have a romantic evening, just the two of us. I’ll tell her we can send out to Mourad’s for a takeaway - her local Moroccan when she’s on a girls’ night out in Putney. I think they’ve got a website with a menu. I’ll surprise her with a large bottle of Chanel and something expensive from Tiffany’s. I’ve got a nice Chianti and a vintage Dom Perignon in the cellar for the occasion. I’ll even rent her favourite film for the night, Bridget Jones Diary.’
Luke Norris sat there nibbling another biscuit.
‘So where’s all this leading, for Christ’s sake?’
‘Patience, Luke, patience.’ Julian leant in closer and lowered his voice. ‘Her sleeping tablets, yes, I can use those.’ He paused to think, ‘Have to check though if they leave an aftertaste. If I split them up, use the powder in her drink, yes that’s it.’ Julian got up and started pacing the carpet excitedly in his Gucci slippers. ‘While I’m uncorking the wine, I’ll pretend I forgot the candles, left them in the kitchen. I’ll buy some especially; put them in the drawer without her seeing; ask her to be a darling and fetch them. Then slip the powder in her drink. Four should comfortably do it. She usually takes one tablet so there’ll be enough to send her sound asleep by the end of the evening.’
Luke Norris looked at him spellbound. He even stopped nibbling at a white chocolate wafer and held it perfectly still while he listened.
‘Now, this is where I have to time it right.’ Julian sat down and thought for a moment then quickly snapped his fingers. ‘I’ve got it! I’ll pre-book that night at the Burberry, Park Lane. They know me there. I can set up a jolly with some shareholders. My treat, wine and dine them. After an early dinner, I’ll take them to a show, check out one that ends quite late.’ Julian made a note in his diary. ‘Make sure when I book to see the seating plan, have them together with myself separate. Tell them I couldn’t get seats altogether. Book a seat well away, so they can’t see me.’ Julian got up and paced the carpet again, as if to get inspiration. He stopped. ‘That’s it!’ His eyes were excited and wild. ‘But that’s it, I’ve got it.’ He sat down. ‘After the show starts, I’ll slip out in disguise, come home and do the meal bit with the wife. Slip the tablets and watch her dose off. Undress her if I have to, get her nightie on, make sure she’s settled in bed, have a clear up, switch off the CCTV and alarm system. Then return to the show. After, I’ll go back to the to the hotel. Use the phone and leave an apologetic message. Proof, I was there. Tell her I’m staying overnight with some business clients and will be back in the morning around ten. Meanwhile at midnight, with a key, you’ll let yourself in. Then rig the boiler to make it even worse. Block the flue somehow. Make out it was a heavy fall of soot. Perhaps use the contents of your vacuum cleaner?’ H
e looked at Luke Norris for a response but he stared back in silence. ‘You’ve got to make like it was an accident. Ensure that thingy monoxide gauge of yours is reading off the scale. There has to be enough gas leaking to kill a horse, let alone her. Then set the boiler to run twenty-four hours. Check all the internal doors are open including the laundry room and the vents are shut. Wipe away any of your fingerprints. Then let yourself out. I’ll return in the morning. If by chance she is still alive, there is a pulse I’ll finish her off with a pillow. I’ll check out everything is as it should be. Then raise the alarm. Act the devastated husband as the police and ambulance arrive. Hold her hand, weeping, the whole bit.’
Luke Norris looked at him as if he was mad. ‘
You’re crazy, you’ll never get away with it.’ He stood up. ‘I’m not getting myself involved with murder, certainly not for a paltry fifteen hundred pounds. And anyway, what’s stopping me going to the police? Alright, so you’ve got me on camera taking a bribe. What If I don’t spend the money, give it to the police and tell them what you wanted me to do. They’d be more interested in you than in me, Buster.’ He made a move for the door.
‘I’ll deny everything about my plans. It’ll be my word against yours, an ex-con, with you on film taking a bribe, pocketing money. Come on Luke, face facts, for that alone you’d be in trouble, probably lose your job. I think I know who they’ll be interested in.’
Luke turned at the door,
‘You’re bloody mad.’
‘How about half a million pounds? Would that change your mind?’
Luke Norris stopped. ‘Half a million?’ he repeated in astonishment. He hovered. He thought for a moment. ‘That’s a lot of money. You must really want her dead.’ He sat down again. ‘So when do I get my money?’
From A Poison Pen: A collection of macabre short stories Page 2